


Burning Edge

by This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic (Hobbitfing)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Burns, Dom/sub, Fire, Fire play, Fluff and Smut, Junker short, Junkertown: The Plan, Junkrat is a kinky fucker and Roadhog's no better honestly, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Playing with matches, Sadism, playing with burns, pyrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic
Summary: Some nights Roadhog just wants sex. Others, he makes Junkrat work for his release.





	Burning Edge

**Author's Note:**

> So um I'm sure there are going to be a million fics with this general theme, but I was...inspired by the new video. So inspired I sat down and wrote this whole thing in one sitting, which _never_ happens...
> 
> Anyway...

Junkrat waits. He _hates_ waiting, but he can tell Roadhog’s got something special in mind tonight. Often Hoggie just _takes_ him—pins him down and jerks him off with one of those massive rough hands or stuffs his tailpipe of a cock down Junkrat’s throat—but sometimes Junkrat can see, practically hear, the tick-tick-tick of Roadhog’s mind working away behind his mask. He can understand the ticking—he’s pretty sure he’d die if his own brain ever stopped, but that doesn’t make it any less maddening. It’s always worth it in the end, it _is_ , but that doesn’t make it any better _now_ , when he can feel the heat of Roadhog’s gaze even through so many layers of leather, feel it scorching up and down his stretched out naked body. There’s so much blood in his dick he’s surprised he can blush, but he does. Only Roadhog has ever done that to him, made him feel like a lovely secret hidden away even by the paltry clothes he wears, all the more coveted when fully revealed.

Junkrat’s hand swipes for his cock. Roadhog bats it away. It isn’t the first time; Junkrat suspects—knows—it won’t be the last time tonight. Roadhog is in one of his Moods, and Junkrat won’t finish until his bodyguard allows it.

Junkrat is still the boss.

One of Roadhog’s hands covers Junkrat’s eyes—and, by extension, most of his face. Junkrat whines, tempted to bite at Roadie’s palm, or at least lick it. Roadhog hates when he does that, but he should know by now that’s what he gets for putting his hand there.

He doesn’t. He waits. Tick.

Tick.

At first it’s rather nice. Deprived of outer stimulation, given only the touch of Roadhog’s calloused hand, the scent of his skin, the sense of being _held_ , wanted, his mind slows. He breathes. In. Out.

But then it’s too much, or rather not enough, and then his mind begins to rev up again. Tick. Tick tick. Tick-tick-ti—

Right before he releases the anguished sound caught in his throat, reaches up to push Roadhog’s hand away, Junkrat hears a sound over the frantic beating of his heart, his panting breaths.

Another kind of tick, this one outside either of their minds. A familiar one.

The blood in his face rushes to his cock. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder, but now he is, swollen almost to the point of bursting, knowing he won’t be released any time soon. Loving it.

Hating it.

Still covering Junkrat’s face but taking care to exaggerate every sound, Roadhog lifts a single wooden match from the container in his free hand. “Hold this,” he rumbles, and Junkrat’s prosthetic hand is there in an instant, shaking fingers wrapping around the cardboard box.

Roadhog slides the match—so fragile in his hand, just like Jamie—along the striking strip, not nearly enough force to ignite it. Just enough for Junkrat to hear the sound, to tantalize him further with what’s to come.

Junkrat squeals, there’s no other word for it, pushing the box against Roadhog’s hand, shuffling it from side to side in a blind effort to ignite the match.

Roadhog pulls away.

The sound of a match breaking in half.

Junkrat imagines he can hear it hitting the ground.

His first response is anger—it usually is, and it’s served him well in the past—but his time with Roadhog has tempered him. Not given him patience, exactly, but taught him to take a breath before reacting. With a deep, exaggerated sigh, he forces himself to go still. He’ll wait, he’ll play along, at least for now.

A long, long moment of silence. Stillness.

Roadhog gently grasps Junkrat’s scrawny wrist, lifts it—and the box he’s holding—until it’s level again.

A breathless pause, every wire of Junkrat’s being humming with electricity. Restrained. For now.

Roadhog selects another match, letting the others clatter in their box and smiling beneath his mask at the focused tension in Junkrat’s whole body. He looks, Roadhog decides, barely containing a laugh, like a pointer dog. His whole world is directed onto one tiny point, all else forgotten. A point Roadhog controls.

This time, Roadhog teases him even more, testing Junkrat. He strokes the tip of the match across Jamie’s flushed and sweaty forehead, dipping it between each of his fingers to dance lower on Junkrat’s face. Junkrat’s empty hand is clenched in a fist at his side, knuckles scraping gouges in the dirt. They’ve played this game enough times that he knows the rules. He’s shit at following him, but maybe that’s part of the fun.

When Roadhog can not just feel but actually _see_ Junkrat vibrating, he relents. Lifting the match from Junkrat’s skin, smiling at the accompanying gasp—the sound and motion so close together they seem linked—Roadhog adjusts Junkrat’s wrist again from where it’s drooped out of position, tightens Jamie’s hold on the box, and strikes a match.

Junkrat’s whole body stiffens as though he’s been electrocuted, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps of pure, raw _need_. He drops the matchbox. Matches—not many—tumble around it, a meaningless pattern of lines and crosses.

Roadhog uncovers Junkrat’s face, the younger man’s eyes greedily devouring the tiny flame held in front of him.

Using the match as a kind of beacon, he directs Junkrat’s gaze to the spilled matches. The empty box.

Junkrat keens, knowing where this is going. Quick as thought he scrambles forward, fingers scraping through matches and gravel and sand, dumping all of it back in the box.

Roadhog shakes his head.

Junkrat fishes through the mess, trying desperately to separate matches from everything else he’s scooped up.

Roadhog doesn’t have to make sure he has Junkrat’s attention. He simply pinches out the flame and throws the spent match aside, then neatly crosses his hands in his lap.

Fury, and this time Junkrat is swept up in it. He launches himself at Roadhog, screaming against his mask. “You utter _cunt_! You fucking...fucker!”

Roadhog is calm and still and weathers out the squall.

Junkrat wears out quickly—he wants what Roadhog is going to give him, after all, though he wishes Hoggie wouldn’t mess about so much first.

Seeing Roadhog unmoved, Junkrat slides off his lap, pushes off Roadhog’s legs with his foot and his peg until he’s sitting in a grumpy huddle a few feet from his bodyguard.

Roadhog reaches out. Tousles Junkrat’s sweaty hair. Holds out the box of matches and dirt.

Sighing dramatically, Junkrat takes the box back, muttering under his breath as he sorts everything into two piles, one on each knee—matches here, everything else there. The box is empty again. He blows out the dust, shows Roadhog the empty box—like a stage magician, Roadhog thinks, though he knows Junkrat wouldn’t know what that was—then tips his little handful of matches into it before brushing the dirt off his other leg. It doesn’t make much difference.

Roadhog nods, and Jamie’s face lights up. Roadhog’s grin broadens behind his mask. He loves how easy Junkrat is, how little it takes to illuminate his entire world. Doesn’t mean he’s going to make this any easier on the little blighter.

Roadhog grasps Junkrat’s flesh wrist, guiding it to rest at his side in its previous position. Waits a few seconds. Junkrat is motionless—well, as motionless as he ever gets. A low-level vibration.

Satisfied, Roadhog lifts Junkrat’s other hand—holding the box of matches—to where he wants it. Another pause. Junkrat is still.

This time Roadhog lights a match quickly—it’s not only Junkrat he’s teasing, after all. He wants this just as badly, and his patience, while long, isn’t infinite.

Junkrat’s breath catches in his throat, a sound Roadhog treasures. Roadhog holds the flame a few centimetres from Junkrat’s body. Just close enough for him to feel the heat, without giving him any real satisfaction.

Junkrat goes so still Roadhog is worried about him for an instant, but he can see the shallow rise and fall of Jamie’s scrawny chest, his eyes tracking every infinitesimal movement of the match across his field of vision. His hand creeps up off the ground, rolls up his thigh, darts toward the centre of his body.

Roadhog pinches out the match.

“Ah, come on! Can't you just...tie me up, mate?”

Roadhog shakes his head, unmoved by Junkrat’s plea. At least on the outside.

They stare at each other for a long moment, unnaturally orange eyes meeting only glass. Roadhog can see that Jamie is getting frustrated, hasn’t made the connection yet, so he relents. Points to the hand in Junkrat’s lap, curled just beside his cock.

Junkrat laughs, his eyes flashing an almost audible _of course!_ but it still takes him a moment to move it. Hand this close to stroking himself, he’s reluctant to pull away.

That’s all right. Roadhog can wait. He takes the box from Junkrat’s trembling hand. Closes it. Gently shakes it, letting the matches inside tumble and click together.

Junkrat’s mouth falls open and he stares, mesmerized, hyper focused on the carton.

Roadhog sighs silently behind his mask. He sometimes wonders how Junkrat stayed alive all these years, being this easy, but he knows he did. Part of him wonders if it’s only _him_ , Roadhog, who has this vast power over Jamie, but that thought’s too big, too terrifying, and he skitters away from it. What he’s doing is more fun, anyway.

Junkrat’s hand, now empty, is hovering in midair, unsure what to do. Roadhog guides it down to rest against his side, matching its partner. Only once Junkrat is still, settled, does Roadhog finally begin again.

He selects a match, slides it across the wax strip in a way that evokes a far more intimate action. Well, more _conventionally_ intimate—he knows this is just as erotic as a tongue on hot skin to Junkrat.

Junkrat whimpers, he can’t help himself. His pupils are enormous despite the brightness of the flame in the near dark.

Roadhog is excited now, too, and it makes him hasty. He presses the lit head of the match to Junkrat’s hairless chest, just below his sternum.

Junkrat howls, throwing himself forward with his arms extended behind him like a figure skater—something else he wouldn’t know about—in his eagerness to finally connect with the flame.

The match goes out and Roadhog quickly lights another one, thick fingers fumbling in his eagerness, but even then he’s too slow. Junkrat regains himself, remembers that there’s something outside of the flashpoint of pleasure-pain-pleasure, feels the wetness of precum spilling off his head and sliding down the underside of his dick.

He stares at it for a moment, eyes wide with a comical expression of surprise, as though he wasn’t expecting to see it there. His hand moves, rising from its Roadhog-assigned place.

Roadhog stills, cupping the match to protect it from the wind. What happens next is up to Junkrat.

Junkrat’s other hand lifts. He stares in wonder at the small, almost perfectly round burn centred on his chest. One finger darts out to touch it, shooting a quick, guilty glance at Roadhog when he makes contact before he’s lost in the sensation and forgets everything else.

Roadhog watches. Waits.

Junkrat pinches the burn between two fingers, eyes rolling back in his head. His other hand—the flesh one—bolts for his dick and begins stroking it with abandon.

Roadhog clears his throat, and that one noise is enough to draw Junkrat back. He looks up at Roadhog, blinking and bewildered.

Roadhog pinches out the flame between finger and thumb, casts the match aside.

Junkrat _wails_ , his eyes brimming with tears of frustration, denial—and manipulation.

Roadhog is unmoved. He crosses his hands in his lap again, holding the matchbox still, not giving Junkrat even the satisfaction of hearing them click around inside.

Junkrat’s eyes narrow and a sly grin parts his lips. Bowing his head so he’s not looking at Roadhog, he pinches the burn harder, other hand flying as he strokes himself.

Roadhog tips the box. Once. All the matches slide to one side, audibly hitting the cardboard and each other.

Junkrat teeters on a knife-edge, and Roadhog loves to see him quiver there, watching as Jamie wavers between playing the game or finishing it early. Roadhog slants the box the other way to help him decide, is pleased beyond reckoning when Junkrat releases the burn. Uses his now-free hand to physically pull the other off his dick.

Places both hands at his sides again, damp fingers splayed. He leans back, propping himself up. If he tries to touch himself, he’ll fall over backwards.

It’s cheating a little, but Roadhog allows it. He suspects Junkrat won’t be able to stay like this for long.

He slides the matchbox open, millimetre by millimetre, watching Jamie’s world shrink down again, small enough to fit inside it. Impatient, Roadhog tips the box forward and selects a match. Lights it, even while Junkrat sits forward, no longer supported by his hands. They’re free to go where they will.

One more tease before he lets the game end.

Roadhog strikes a match, holds it in front of Jamie's astonished face.

The flame flickers, dancing with Junkrat's frantic breaths.

Junkrat freezes, stills his breathing so he won't blow it out.

Roadhog holds it there, and Jamie's doing so well. Doesn't mean he won't cheat a little. He pinches the burn on Junkrat's chest.

Junkrat gasps, breath leaving him in a rush, his expression quickly turning from desperate arousal to one of horror when the flame goes out and Roadhog tosses the spent match aside.

Roadhog can't help laughing at the look on Jamie's face, but he covers it by lighting another match. He grabs Junkrat by the back of the neck, pulling him close, plunging the lit match against his skin like a tiny dagger. He can hear Junkrat’s skin pop when the flame strikes home. This close, he can feel Junkrat’s whole body stiffen, shiver, almost convulse as the sensation rocks through him. After discovering this particular...quirk...of Junkrat’s, Roadhog had tried putting out a few matches on his own skin, just to see how it felt, to make sure he didn’t use Junkrat too hard. Didn’t do anything for him. Hurt. Whatever strange way Junkrat was wired, it had to feel completely different to him, and _that_ got Roadhog off.

Junkrat wraps both arms around Roadhog’s broad back as far as he can reach, clinging to him as though his life depends on it. The match has gone out, but Roadhog twists the charred tip in the fresh wound. Junkrat keens again, the sound rising and falling with every microscopic movement of Roadhog’s fingers. _Playing the Junkrat_ as Roadhog thinks of it. Not the most beautiful sound in the world to be sure, but music to Roadhog’s ears.

At last, Roadhog pulls away. Still gripping the back of Rat’s neck, he pulls their foreheads together, panting breath loud enough to be heard even through his mask. His cock is straining against the license plate, but he’s older, more experienced. He can outlast Junkrat.

Nothing wrong with hurrying things along, though, and for the _most_ part Junkrat has been obedient. He’s clearly playing the game to the best of his ability, and Roadhog can appreciate that.

Junkrat is grinning at him from centimetres away, his flushed, delighted face filling the eyeholes in Roadhog’s mask.

Roadhog gives him a gentle push, separating them again. Now Junkrat is sporting two bright red burns on his chest, like tiny medals. He’s beaming like he’s just been awarded the highest honour in the land—and maybe, in his mind, he has.

Waiting for Junkrat to settle, Roadhog shows mercy and holds the matchbox still.

Junkrat’s bony chest is heaving as he stares down in wonder at the burns. A hand darts up to prod them, fingers dancing across them, pinching, eyes closed in pure bliss.

Roadhog allows it—he’s not touching his cock, after all, and that’s the _main_ focus of the game.

Quickly, very quickly, Junkrat’s own fingers aren’t enough to satisfy him. He glances between his straining, leaking erection, Roadhog’s face, and the matchbox. Roadhog can tell, even before Junkrat moves, what he’s decided. He opens his arms invitingly, holding the matchbox out of Jamie’s reach.

With a delighted cry, Junkrat flies into Roadhog’s lap, bracing himself against Roadhog’s back and kissing desperately at Roadhog’s neck and the bottom of his mask. Roadhog wraps a thick arm around that scrawny neck, pinning him in place. This late in the game, he's willing to help Jamie. Just a little.

Junkrat’s vibration increases. Roadhog could probably start a fire if he rubbed him with a stick.

Making sure he has Junkrat’s full attention, Roadhog shakes the little box, makes a great show of reaching in and selecting a match—his fingers close around one, hold it up, inspect it for ‘flaws’, drop it back in so he can repeat the process.

“Roadie!” Junkrat begs, everything below his neck twisting and squirming but he's held more or less in place. Both hands come up, nails digging into Roadhog’s arm on one side, metal fingertips on the other. “ _Please_ mate!”

There’s a desperate, almost panicked edge to Jamie’s voice that tells Roadhog he’s almost done, that it’s time to bring the game to a close.

He strikes a match decisively, holding it in front of Junkrat’s eyes.

“Now?” Junkrat asks, careful where he directs the puff of air. He's learned from his previous mistake. His voice is almost pathetically small, head canted up to stare at Roadhog, only able to see the underside of his mask.

Roadhog nods, the tip of his leather snout truffling through Junkrat’s hair, and that’s enough. He waits until Junkrat has a secure grip on his cock, hand pumping furiously, before pressing the match to an unmarked section of Junkrat’s chest.

Junkrat _howls_ , long minutes of frustration and fury pouring out of him in a rush. He comes, hard and wild, driving the point of the extinguished match against the burn, leaving skittering trails of black ash on his chest, biting at Roadhog’s arm, clawing at his own legs, the ground, anything he can reach. It’s a long time before he goes still, mouth slack, eyelids drooping, an expression of sheer, exhausted bliss on his pointy face.

Roadhog tosses the spent match aside and gathers Junkrat in his arms, tenderly stroking Jamie’s sweat-beaded forehead, his blotchy arms, his damp cheeks.

Junkrat sniffles, but manages a grin. No words, and that’s almost enough of a reward for Roadhog. Still...

Gently laying Junkrat down, Roadhog shuffles through his gear until he comes up with a tiny tin and a carton, similar in size to the matchbox. He unscrews the tin, delicately dips one finger in its contents, and spreads the salve on the small constellation of fresh burns on Junkrat’s chest.

Junkrat beams up at him, eyes misty. “You’re my best mate, you know that?”

Roadhog nods, dabbing his finger again.

“Wasn’t talking to you, cunt!” Junkrat laughs. He raises a limp arm, trying to point. “I was talking to your _tum_!” he insists.

Roadhog nods again, bracing a hand on either side of his tattooed belly, careful not to smear the greasy salve on himself, making the pig ‘dance’ for Jamison.

“Yeah,” Junkrat murmurs, eyes drifting shut.

Salve applied—there’s not much more he can do, not with the supplies they have, and Junkrat has clearly sustained far worse injuries with less care, but Roadhog still worries about infection—Roadhog opens the carton. Inside are paper-wrapped bandages, the lettering faded almost to illegibility, the paper yellowed and curled. Almost every bandage in the box is a wildly different size, no two the same. “Pachimari or bacon?” Roadhog asks. He doesn’t bother offering a plain one, though they’re running low on the bright, colourful ones that delight Junkrat.

Junkrat frowns with happy indecision. “Pachimari. No! Two Pachimari, one bacon. Bacon here.” He points at the requested burn.

Roadhog nods, unwraps the bandages one at a time, presses them into place as directed. He knows these tiny bits of control are important to Junkrat.

He ‘kisses’ each one with the snout of his mask, delighting in Junkrat’s trio of giggles. Doctoring finished, he sprawls in front of Junkrat, and Jamie is cuddled against his side almost before he’s gotten entirely settled.

Quiet for a time, then, “What about you?” Junkrat sits up, looking down at Roadhog with a touching expression of concern.

Roadhog cocks his head to one side, a question.

“You didn’t get off, mate!” Now Junkrat looks almost desperate, like Roadhog is in danger of exploding if his needs aren’t immediately met. Junkrat sniffs, lower lip quivering. “You were so good to me, did me so good, and I...I didn’t do anything for you!”

“It’s all right,” Roadhog rumbles, patting the ground beside himself.

Junkrat shakes his head, eyes shining with determination.

Roadhog rolls his eyes behind his mask. He hadn’t come, true, but he had _definitely_ gotten off on what they’d done. He would have been content until the next time they stopped the bike for a break, or at least until morning, but clearly Junkrat wouldn’t. Roadhog laughed. “You can barely sit up.”

Junkrat’s cheeks flush with indignation and embarrassment, knowing Roadhog has read him so easily. “I can...do stuff!”

“Mm-hmm. C’mere.” Roadhog holds out his arm again, and this time Junkrat relents and cuddles against him again. Roadhog unfastens his overalls and slides the license plate out of the way, baring himself to the cool night air. His erection has dwindled in the few minutes since he’d finished with Junkrat, but quickly hardens again with a little attention. He paws at Junkrat’s scrawny chest, pressing on each of the burns but careful not to disturb the bandages. Junkrat squeaks and moans, a pleasant soundtrack while Roadhog briskly finishes himself.

A quick wipe, then, “Happy?”

Junkrat nods, burrowing against Roadhog’s side.

“Good. Sleep.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the POV shifts and present tense :( That's how it wanted to be written it wasn't my choice ahhh!


End file.
